Chapter 12
Atalanta
After a week, the Argo arrived at the island of the Doliones, and I was confronted with the unfamiliar prospect of a bath.
A large tub of hot water was waiting, steam rising from its surface. The garish reek of flowers that rose from the petals
scattered on top of the water unnerved me, severed as it was from the cycles of the natural world.
“A gift from Queen Cleite,” the attendant explained. “She heard there was a woman among the crew and wished for your comfort.”
I stared at the tub suspiciously, but Meleager laughed at my hesitation. “You’ve faced a monstrous boar, but a little water
frightens you?”
I booted Meleager out of the room and lowered myself gingerly into the tub. Hot water really was quite pleasant, like being
held in the palm of some great hand. Baths, I decided, were one of the better features of the human world.
Eventually a servant came to call us all to supper.
The feasting table of the Dolionians creaked under the weight of the dishes laid upon it: Roasted vegetables and meat, tuna and shellfish.
Dripping cuts of pork simmered in spices that made my mouth tingle.
Fresh-baked breads bursting with olives, along with goblets of wine, which I had never tasted before; a sharp beverage that burned on the way down and left me feeling unpleasantly dizzy.
Meleager told me the names of these items, passing morsels to me and smiling at my reactions.
After so long subsisting mainly on the leathery beef and stale bread of the Argo, I ate as much as I could hold.
So did the rest of the Argonauts, lined up on each side of the table, jostling each other. Cyzicus, king of the Doliones,
presided at the table’s head. The dancing flames of the lamps suspended over the scene glittered on his golden crown and the
chalice he lifted to toast our arrival. Cyzicus gave a long speech about hospitality and the welcome afforded to heroes, though
I absorbed very little of it, being completely occupied by a fish cooked so tenderly it seemed to melt in my mouth.
My gaze shifted to the woman next to Cyzicus. Petite, with dark curls piled on top of her head, she watched her husband quietly.
My eyes lingered on her, and my mind began to turn. This must be the queen, the one who had sent me the bath. Perhaps she
could help me find what I was seeking.
After the king’s interminable speech was finished, I made my way toward her. Cleite looked startled at my appearance, though
she calmed a bit when she saw I was not a strange man.
“My lady,” I began, “have you by any chance encountered a woman named Procris? She is of an age with you and I, and carries
a spear, and travels in the company of a yellow dog. She might have passed through these lands.”
Cleite stared at me blankly, though I spoke in Greek, which we both understood. For an interminable moment, we stared at each
other across the abyss of our manifold differences.
My eyes ran over Cleite’s skin, untouched by the sun and impossibly smooth.
Her slender form was wreathed in colorful fabric.
Jewels glittered at her neck, wrists, and ears, catching the light.
She seemed equally fascinated by me, taking in my salt-stained clothing and bare, muscled arms. We were like creatures from different worlds, united by the simple fact of being the only two women in this room full of men.
Despite my better instincts, I thought of Procris, and my heart ached with longing.
“I—I am afraid I have never made the acquaintance of this Procris,” Cleite replied, tightening her fingers over her veil but
seemingly unable to look away from me. “Though if there is anything I can do to make your stay here more comfortable . . .”
“Thank you for the bath,” I said awkwardly, not bothering to disguise my disappointment, and fled from the feasting hall into
the silence outside.
The Argo departed the isle of the Doliones the following day, taking advantage of the fair winds and the gentle sea. But by late afternoon,
the sunlight darkened as storm clouds rolled in. The ship began to pitch like a bucking bull, and rain fell hard.
A storm at sea is a horrible thing: Ocean and sky fused together in one horrible morass of cold and wet. To make matters worse,
night had fallen and everything was dark. I scrabbled over the salt-slick deck as Tiphys shrieked directions to draw in the
sails. A wave struck the ship, and I spat out a mouthful of seawater, only to be knocked from my feet once again.
Eventually, the hull of the Argo scraped against solid earth; we had made our way to land again, a blessed relief. The rain had tapered off, but now it was
dark as only a moonless night can be.
We were not yet safe. I lifted my head; over the roar of the sea, I heard the sound of running feet and the clatter of armor.
This was the only warning we had before they were upon us.
Armed warriors, here to drive out those they saw as intruders. The air was filled with the clang of bronze and grunts of pain. I felt my spear pierce flesh and heard Meleager’s grunt as he parried a blow beside me.
A call of retreat, and the crash of armor leading off into the distance. We stood panting, soaked with blood and seawater.
Then gray dawn came and, with it, horror.
The enemy corpses were wearing the royal emblem of the Doliones—the same people who had welcomed us the night before. It seemed
the Doliones had moved to defend their homeland when a strange crew washed up in the darkness, all in ignorance. Cries rose
up among the Argonauts, and Meleager pressed a hand to his forehead. I drew closer to one of the corpses and saw it was our
former host Cyzicus.
The king was dead, his blank face looking up at the sky. A spear shaft protruded from his chest, one that I recognized. I’d
carved it myself before giving it as a consolation prize to Jason.
Our leader had been the one to kill our host and honored friend.
Pale-faced and nervously rubbing the back of his head, Jason insisted on personally delivering the news of Cyzicus’s death
to Queen Cleite. It was only later that we learned she killed herself in her grief.